


Eight Days of Lambukkah

by marina, miarr, Roga



Category: American Idol RPF, Generation Kill, Heroes - Fandom, Mr. and Mrs. Smith (2005), NCIS, Politician RPF, Pundit RPF, Sports Night, The Wire
Genre: Crack, Crossover, Gen, Holiday, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-18
Updated: 2009-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-04 14:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/31031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/pseuds/marina, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miarr/pseuds/miarr, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam Lambert's eight days of Hanukkah, 2009.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eight Days of Lambukkah

**Author's Note:**

> Crack, or maybe a jam-filled pastries sugar high, we don't really know. Happy holiday :-)

**1.**

"Uh, do you have any idea what the blessing is?" Jon asks at the end of the show. He and Adam are both holding lit candles, hovering over the two menorahs props had managed to scrounge up.

"Not really," Adam admits, raising his eyebrows. "Hmm. Maybe we should have rehearsed this part."

"Okay, we can do this," Jon says confidently. "God doesn't care if we improvise, right?"

"Yeah, man," Adam says. "Go for it."

"All right, you ready?" Jon says. Adam raises his candle in response. "Baruch ata a farshlepteh krenk tchatchke Hanukkahle light, amen."

"Amen," Adam repeats with a suppressed smile, and lights his candle as Jon does the same. He sticks the _shamash_ in the menorah when he's done. "I think you nailed it."

"I'm so glad it's you and not Simon Cowell here, because honestly, it was a piece of shit." Adam laughs, and Jon shakes his hand and turns to the audience. "Adam Lambert, ladies and gentlemen!"

When the cheering dies down, he turns back to the camera. "Before we go, we'll check in as usual with our good friend Stephen Colbert at the Colbert Report. Stephen?"

Stephen appears on the monitor. "Good evening, Jon—" he intones, and then does a double take. "Jon, is that Adam Lambert?" he gasps. "Why didn't you warn me?"

Jon blinks. "I didn't realize there was anything to warn about."

"Oh my god, Jon, are you even aware that you have a _gay Jew_ in your studio?"

"Why do you keep forgetting that I'm Jewish too?" Jon complains. "We sang a song about it last year and everything."

Stephen pops back onscreen with a crucifix. "In nomine Patris, at Filii, et Spiritus Sancti—" he begins to chant.

"I think that's taking it a bit too far," Jon says.

"Too far? Adam Lambert is in your studio talking about _nailing things_. This is for your own protection."

"Didn't you dress up as a glampire for Halloween?"

Stephen huffs. "You know that wasn't me, Jon, it was my cousin Stéfan Colebert, stop changing the subject."

"Okay," Jon says with a grin, "I think we're done here. Have a good show."

"_Watch out for his crotch, Jon!_" Stephen manages before the feed disconnects.

"And now," Jon tells the audience, "here it is, your moment of zen."

When the cameras cut away he leans towards Adam. "Not too shabby," he says, reaching his hand out again.

Adam shakes it warmly. "No, it was great. I'm really looking forward to coming back someday."

"Excellent," Jon says in his evil mastermind voice. "Listen, me and Stephen and Anderson Cooper are gonna grab a drink after Stephen's show. Feel like a night out in the city?"

Adam smiles, a glint in his eye. "Count me in."

**2.**

The cutest couple arrive two minutes before the start of the show, hurrying in from the cold and looking apologetic about the muddy footprints they track everywhere on the station floor. They're being dragged forward by a tiny blond angel in mittens and a knit hat. Interracial, gay, _and_ attractive together—they are immediately Adam's favorites. Plus, not that he has any secret paternal urges or whatever, but the entire tableau is so adorably domestic, he kind of wants to hug them.

"Come _on_," the girl's whispering, loudly enough that Adam can hear her on the other side of the room. "I want a front row seat. It's _Adam Lambert_."

Her parents look mystified, but allow themselves to be dragged to the front and squeezed into a corner. All the chairs are taken and people are standing up besides—it looks like the NYPD Non-Denominational Winter Holiday Party has a full house tonight, which Adam thoroughly approves of. He's always had a thing for cops.

He sings a bunch of songs—holiday stuff, not promotional or anything—and of course the whole event inevitably turns into a giant sing-a-long, with clapping and dancing. It's totally awesome. Afterwards, during the multi-holiday festivities, they call him up along with Mayor Bloomberg to light the station menorah. It's nice (although he thinks he's lit more menorahs since becoming an Idol than he ever had in his life), especially when the cop half of his favorite couple comes to say the blessings. In uniform, no less.

"Hey," the guy says to Adam afterwards, extending a hand. "I'm Matt Parkman. Pleased to meet you."

"Adam Lambert; likewise." They shake hands. "I'm thrilled to be here. There's such a great feeling of community."

"You don't hear that said often in New York," Matt says, and then, in a rush: "I'm sorry, I have no idea who you are. Are you famous?"

Adam laughs. "Infamous, maybe, depends on who you ask," he says. "I was on American Idol."

"Oh." Matt scratches the back of his head. "Mohinder and I don't have much time for television, actually—"

"Matt, are you talking about me?" The other guy suddenly makes his way out of the crowd, fetching up against Matt's side. He's cute, in a professor-y kind of way: glasses, old clothes, a scarf; the works. Adam wonders abstractly how they found each other.

Then the guy notices him. "Ah, pardon me," he said. "Mohinder Suresh." They shake hands. "You have an exquisite voice."

Adam beams and introduces himself again; he's about to say more when a minor shriek sounds and the blond angel nearly barrels right into them.

"Adam Lambert!" she squeaks, and attaches herself to his sleeve cuff. "Really Adam Lambert! _Oh my god_. I can't believe it! You are _incredible_."

"Molly! Behave yourself," Mohinder says. He looks at Adam, somewhere between bewildered and apologetic. "I'm sorry, she's usually very well-behaved—"

"It's cool," Adam says, and kneels down so that he's eye-to-eye with her. "Hi, Molly. Did you like the show tonight?"

"Yes," she breathes, eyes round as plates. "Oh my god, _yes_. You are _so amazing_." She leans in conspiratorially. "You totally should have won."

He laughs. "Thanks. I'm glad Kris did, though." He glances up at the adults. "I take it your parents don't follow the show?"

"My parents? Oh, you mean Mohinder and Matt." Molly rolls her eyes. "They don't know _anything_. Like, they think Ryan Seacrest is some kind of clothing brand."

Adam bravely refrains from snorting.

"Can I get a hug? Please," Molly adds, after a stern look from Mohinder. "Pretty pretty please? My friends will be _so_ jealous."

Adam glances at her parents for permission, and gives Molly a brief, warm hug. When he releases her—or rather, she releases him—she gives a little squeal.

"I can't believe it! This is the best winter ever. I mean, you're _Adam Lambert_. Wow."

Mohinder sighs. "I miss the days when she used to get excited by a hug from me."

Matt puts a hand on Mohinder's shoulder sympathetically. "I miss the days when she used to get excited by Hanukkah gelt. We were saving up nickels to buy a pony and everything."

He does not have any secret paternal urges, Adam reminds himself; he does _not_. Instead he turns his attention back to Molly and beams. "I'd love to see you in a concert sometime, if Matt and Mohinder let you go. We'll be touring in the New York area in a couple of months, so keep track."

"Oh, don't worry," Molly says blithely. "I always know _exactly_ where you are."

**3.**

This is how Rhonda Pearlman finds herself sitting next to Adam Lambert at a Hanukkah dinner in Mayor Carcetti's home:

The day the invitation arrives, Cedric takes one look at it and gives Rhonda an incredulous smile. "Is he serious?"

Rhonda manages to say, "Apparently he is," before they both start laughing. It's Carcetti's last two months in office, apparently his wife's a fan. Rhonda didn't have any plans for that Sunday anyway. She gets free tickets to the Christmas concert, too, but ends up donating them.

"You're abandoning me?" She says when Cedric announces over a phone line full of static that his flight's been delayed. "Leaving me alone with Adam Lambert?"

She can practically hear him smiling on the other side of the country. "I hope you'll be able to control yourself."

"You owe me latkes for this," she sighs.

At the dinner Carcetti wears his usual weaselly smile – she remembers when she used to think of it as charming. "Would you like to do the honors, Judge?" he says when it's time to light the candles.

"I think I'll leave that to our guest of honor," she smiles and passes the _shamash_ to the kid, who looks about five times less ridiculous than he usually does on television but still inappropriately glamorous for a dinner with the mayor of Baltimore. Or, hell, she thinks as he lights the candles, maybe she's just getting old.

"Pass me the salad please," she says, and he smiles, before passing her the bowl.

For a moment he contemplates the truly enormous plate of latkes located next to where the salad used to be. "We should really move that to the other end of the table," he finally says.

Rhonda can't help but grin. "Come on, take one."

He narrows his eyes at her. "You take one."

"No thanks," she smiles, piling salad onto her plate. "I'll be getting plenty at home." One of the things she hadn't expected when they got together was that Cedric could actually make pretty decent latkes.

"Smooth," he acknowledges, lips curving up. "Sadly, some of us are forced to rely on the latkes of strangers."

She hands him back the salad. "Eat some of this, it'll even out."

Lambert raises an eyebrow, but takes the salad anyway. He heaps some on his own plate and, after a moment's consideration, sighs and grabs a latke as well.

"Oil soaked pastries, anyone?" Judge Williams says, passing around a plate of sufganyot.

Lambert groans. "I really hate this holiday."

Rhonda contemplates, while chewing on a tomato, foregoing her custom of donating the Christmas concert tickets next year.

**4.**

Adam's standing in line at the checkout counter when the guy behind him asks, "Do you have a piece of gum?"

Which is a little weird because they're in a grocery store so there's actually a lot of gum lying around, but whatever. Adam always carries a pack with him anyway. "Sure," he says, turning to offer a stick of peppermint. The guy's wearing a thick black coat, and his long, narrow face and graying hair are naggingly familiar, though Adam can't put his finger on why. "Careful, it burns," he advises, but the guy pops the gum in his mouth and chews without flinching.

"Thanks," the guy says, and turns his attention to his BlackBerry, muttering, "Motherfucking sons of whores…"

The line inches forward, and Adam knows it'll just keep bugging him now. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asks.

"I work at the White House, nice to meet you," he says distractedly, and suddenly it hits Adam, because Neil has totally been crushing on this guy since January.

"Hi," he says, smiling, "I'm—"

"Adam Lambert," Rahm says without looking up from his BlackBerry. "Born January 29th 1982, auditioned for _American Idol_ July 17th 2008, Bowie-influenced glam rocker, Jewish, gay, recently single, and last week you sold 50,638 albums."

Adam stares. "Wow."

"I know everything. It's my job."

"And people say you can't trust the government," Adam says with a grin.

Rahm's phone rings, and he holds up a finger. "My wife," he explains, and Adam goes back to waiting in line, noticing the paparazzi that are starting to lurk outside the store. "—the girls I'm here with Adam Lambert," Rahm is saying behind him. "What? Oh. Gotcha." Rahm snaps his phone shut. "Lambert, you're coming with me."

Adam laughs. "I'm sorry?"

"Did you have any plans?"

"I'm supposed to Emcee at this party later tonight—"

"We'll be done by then. My girls want you to light the candles with them."

"Um," Adam says, carefully choosing his words, "Not that I'm not flattered, but—"

"I'm sorry," Rahm says dryly. "Did it sound like the offer was optional?" Which, now that Adam thinks about it, no, it really didn't. "Your management turned down the invitation to sing at the National Menorah lighting ceremony last night which meant I was stuck with Dreidelman and the fucking Macabees. My daughters missed your concert this summer and I didn't stop hearing about it for an entire month. Just so we're clear, I am not going through that again."

Adam's about to reply with something other than _whoa_ when the cashier rings him up. "That'll be $13.63," the cashier says in a bored voice, and then he adds, "Hey, aren't, you that guy from _Idol_?" He packs Adam's things into a bag, reading aloud, "Low fat peach melba yogurt. That is so gay," he snickers.

Adam rolls his eyes, because _really_, but suddenly Rahm is there like a freaking ninja. "Hey, asshole," he says "I've been in and out of Washington for the past twenty years. I've fucked more guys up the ass than this guy ever will." He tosses a five dollar bill on the counter. "And I'll take the Low Fat Mixed Berry Fuck You Holiday Edition."

The bell dings when they leave the store. "Fucker," Rahm mutters darkly. "Yogurt calms me down."

You can't really tell, though, especially with the paparazzi scattering with panic at the sight of Rahm, which is actually kind of convenient. Adam hits his speed dial when Rahm isn't looking. "Neil," he whispers into the phone. "I think I'm being kidnapped by Rahm Emanuel. Tell Mom I love her."

"Oh my god I hate you," Neil says.

"Is that your brother?" Rahm asks, because apparently he's got eyes on the back of his head. "Tell him he has an okay blog."

On the other end of the line, Neil starts hyperventilating. Adam sighs. "Right," he says, and shuts the phone.

**5.**

Ziva can't even remember the last time she spent the holiday at home. Whatever home is , or ever was, really. She's grown used to spending the first night of Hanukkah dodging Santa Clauses on the street, the second night of Hanukkah getting serenaded by carolers, the third night watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ on TV, and so on and so on until the last night of Hanukkah, when her dark bedroom is lit by the Christmas lights hanging outside the apartment building. On Christmas Day itself her neighbor wishes her a happy Hanukkah, and Ziva doesn't bother correcting her anymore that Hanukkah ended last week. It's nice, the season, if a little tedious.

And still, she marks the 25th of Kislev on the calendar, fries _levivot_ one night at least and lights the _chanukia_, startled whenever she hears Americans call it a menorah because a menorah has _seven_ branches, not nine, or when she finds dreidels with the wrong letters printed on them, because the miracle happened There, not Here.

She's feeling just a little displaced and just a little nostalgic on the redeye to Miami, enough to give in to the urge to start humming songs from her childhood. _Mi Yemallel_ is one of the first songs she remembers her mother teaching her. It feels almost inappropriately festive for this dark, quiet flight, and at the same time, lonely. It's not a song she's used to singing by herself.

Except that suddenly she's not; a smooth, beautiful voice is singing softly from the seat behind her, humming the second part of the melody with the four-beat delay that creates the harmony. It's a low voice, calm and serene and mesmerizing, and she barely even notices when her own voice fades away just so she can hear him better.

"No, don't stop," she hears him say behind her, and Ziva turns around to face her mysterious harmonizer. His black hair is all but covering his eyes, styled but a little flight-tired. He's wearing dark nail polish, four large rings, a number of other black-and-silver themed accessories, and a warm, affectionate smile on his face. She smiles a little. He reminds her of Abby.

"Come on, it's a round," he says, soft enough not to wake the man sleeping in the seat beside him. "Can't sing it alone."

"I am not much of a singer," she says honestly. "I prefer to listen."

"I thought you were doing pretty good, and I have a good ear."

She isn't the only one who's turned in her seat, she notices. A number of people, in various levels of conspicuousness, have their eyes on them. Ziva is fairly sure it's not because she has something in her teeth. "Are you aware that there are people staring at you?" she asks.

He doesn't turn to see what she's talking about. "It happens sometimes," he says, his eyes crinkling at the sides.

Tony would probably know who he is, Ziva thinks. She wonders what he'll say when she tells him about this when she gets back.

"Okay, seriously," he says, "now we _have_ to keep going or else I'll never get that song out of my head."

She realizes he's correct. _Mi Yemallel_ is best consumed in full, and in small doses. "Do you make it a habit to sing with strangers you've just met?" she asks, turning around to settle back into her seat.

He laughs quietly. "I should probably do it more often."

Ziva smiles. "Maybe I should too."

She closes her eyes, and picks up the tune.

**6.**

Brad hates being dragged to the mall by Nate. Not that he has anything against malls in particular – Poke will never let him forget that time in Florida when Brad spent three hours at a RadioShack, ogling the tech and coming away with nothing. Malls could be excellent. But Nate dragging him along clothes shopping in designer stores, looking at tailored suits and purple silk shirts for interviews and speaking engagements, is really not Brad's idea of a good time. He could have just stayed at the hotel, but fuck, Brad did not go on vacation to spend a day hanging out on his own with his boyfriend's sexy ass out of reach.

In the third store though, when Nate starts going through seven thousand ties that all look the same, Brad's hands begin to itch for his M4, and that's when he knows it's time to retreat. He goes to take a piss, deciding to use the time to plan a strategy to drag Nate the fuck out of this place and back to their unreasonably large bedroom.

Except that before can finish zipping up his pants four big guys in suits burst into the bathroom, two of them leaning against the door as soon as they're inside, in lieu of a lock. There's a fifth guy, thinner, wearing leather pants... that sparkle.

"Uh," Brad says, buttoning up his jeans. He raises an eyebrow and gives the door a pointed look – he'd like to get out of here in the near future.

One of the guys in black stares at him, incredulous. "Iceman, is that you?"

The other guys exchanged confused looks. Brad squints, trying to remember the guy's face. "…Ortega?" he tries.

"Fuck yeah!" the guy says. "Alpha company, third platoon!"

Now Brad remembers him, from Afghanistan. Damn, the guy's put on a lot of weight. Brad smiles at him. "How's life, Pipsqueak?"

Ortega laughs. "Can't believe you remember that; no one's called me that since I was discharged." Suddenly he seems to remember there are other people in the room. "Sorry," he says, turning to the other guys and gesturing at Brad. "This is Brad Colbert, best Marine I've ever served with."

"Nice to meet you," the guy with the dubious fashion sense extends a hand. "Adam."

Brad shakes his hand with a vague sense of annoyance – the guy's clearly some kind of celebrity, but Brad's been out of the country for the last eight months. Nate would know who he is.

"Sorry for all this," Adam says. "A girl asks for one song and next thing you know I'm doing a Christmas-Hanukkah medley for half the store. Apparently my popularity is growing among eight year olds. Or maybe their grandmothers. Either way, _someone_ shoved this into my pants." He pulls a dreidel out of his pocket. "I guess it's more festive than getting dildos thrown at you onstage, but I'd really rather pretend it never happened."

Brad can't help but chuckle. He really should look this guy up. "No nieces or nephews you can pass it on to?"

Adam raises his eyebrows. "You want it?"

"It's not that I don't like tops," Brad says, watching as Adam's lips melt into a smirk, "but I think I'll get my nieces some dreidels that haven't been down a guy's crotch. No offense."

Adam laughs, eyeing Brad with renewed interest. "None taken."

Brad's cell phone buzzes in his pocket. "Sorry, emergency at Neiman Marcus," he says, deleting Nate's message.

"I know what that's like," Adam says with a sincerity Brad hopes to never truly understand. It's just a fucking tie, for God's sake.

"Nice seeing you, Pipsqueak," Brad says, pushing past the other guys and walking out the door. "I'll tell Poke you said hi."

**7.**

Adam can't believe his stupid fucking luck when the elevator gets stuck between the 12th and 13th floors of the Hyatt. He'd been stuck in an elevator once as a kid and that time it had taken three hours to get him and his mom out. The thought of sitting there for three hours instead of crashing in a giant bed after the performance and the afterparty is almost enough to make him bang on the walls.

He isn't expecting the elevator ceiling to open – he hadn't even realized there was a trap door up there – and he certainly isn't expecting a gorgeous woman dressed in black to land right next to him out of nowhere.

"Sorry to barge in, Mr. Lambert," she says, pulling out a pen and a piece of paper. "I was wondering if I could have your autograph?"

"Who are you?" Adam says, pinching himself covertly. Nope, still here.

"You can call me Mrs. Smith," she says, pushing the pen and paper at him. "My husband's a really big fan." As if foreseeing his next question she adds, "Let's just say I was in the neighborhood."

Admittedly, Adam is not as intimately familiar with the female body as he is with the male, but he's pretty sure that hips aren't supposed to look like that unless they're hiding large guns. Adam's fans come in different levels of crazy, and with the highest ones, sometimes it's safest to just smile and play along. He scribbles down his name, dedicating it to Mr. Smith.

"Thank you," she says. "Chag sameach!" She smiles at him before disappearing back into the elevator shaft quicker than Adam would have thought humanly possible.

Adam is left staring at the closing hatch. "Seriously? You're Jewish?" The hatch doesn't reply.

A minute later the elevator starts moving again.

**8.**

"And here he is now, for your entertainment – Adam Lambert," Casey cues, and Adam's band bursts into the intro to his song.

"All right, guys," Natalie says in the control room, "keep it moving between cameras 2 to 5, let's try to make this look professional."

Dana sighs happily. "Jeremy, have I told you lately that I love you?"

"Yes," Jeremy says, "but please feel free to repeat yourself, I don't mind."

"I love you, Jeremy."

"We love you too," Casey chimes in from the studio.

"Jeremy, you are the man," Dan adds.

"Well technically my mother is the man," Jeremy says, "but I'm more than willing to take credit."

"So this was a Jewish mafia thing?" Kim asks.

"She went to high school with Adam Lambert's mom," Jeremy says. "So in a nutshell, yes."

"Your mother is the man, Jeremy," Dana says blissfully, "and I still cannot believe Adam Lambert is singing on our show. Suck on that, NBC Sports."

"Um, Dana," Elliot says.

"We are going to slam them out of the charts. I'm going to buy Jeremy's mom flowers. And those little holiday donuts you have."

"Dana," Elliot says again, eyes wide. "We seem to be having problems with the monitors."

Dana snaps to attention. "What?"

"Uh oh," Kim says, leaning in closer. "Yeah, this is gonna be a problem."

"Guys," Casey says from the studio, "what's going on up there?"

"There's a reason we're a sports show and not a late night show is what's going on," Natalie mutters, and exchanges a look with Dana, who nods. "Can someone tap into his earpiece?"

Elliot flicks a switch. "You're on."

Natalie passes the mic up to Dana. "Mr. Lambert, I am so sorry—" Dana says in a rush. Adam's eyes widen almost imperceptibly on the screen, but he keeps singing. "—But we're having some technical difficulties, and we really need you to keep doing what you're doing till we get this fixed."

For a flash of a second Adam winks at the camera, not skipping a beat in the song. Dana drops the mic. "Jeremy, I hate you. Somebody fix this now."

The room explodes in a flurry of activity. "Okay, almost there—" Elliot mutters a few minutes later as Adam wraps up the song, and Dan and Casey motion for him to keep going. Lambert starts improvising, taking the last few notes to new and unexpected places.

"I loved when he used to do that on Idol," Natalie sighs.

"How are we doing?" Dana asks anxiously. "I think he's already hit every note in existence twice, he can't go on much longer."

"We're close," Elliot promises, not looking up from the machinery he and Kim and the tech guys are fiddling with.

"Wow," Jeremy says, "he is holding that note for a really long time."

"Is that a bar from the Star Spangled Banner?" Dan asks.

"And Pink Floyd," Casey adds.

"And 'I have a little dreidel'," Jeremy says. "This is really inspired."

"Has he breathed yet?" Dana asks. "Are we going to have to call for medical evacuation?"

"And done!" Elliot announces, rushing back to his seat. Dan and Casey give Adam a thumbs up, and with a final octave or three, he wraps the song up with a bang.

"Wow," Jeremy says, looking up from his watch. "According to my calculations, that one breath lasted for eight times longer than an average human being is capable of holding."

"Well, you've heard the rumors," Natalie says. "Maybe he's a glittery alien after all."

"Or maybe it was just time for—" Jeremy starts.

"Don't," Dana says with a pained expression.

"Too obvious?"

"Yes," Dana, Natalie, Kim and Elliot say simultaneously.

"The only thing that's too obvious around here," comes Isaac's voice from the doorway, "is that you people need to focus more on your jobs and less on your quipping, which isn't even all that good, in my control room."

"Yes, Isaac," Dana says, immediately starting to order her crew around again. When the ball's rolling again, she leans back, watching Adam, Dan and Casey joking around in the studio. "Man," she says. "I still can't believe we got Adam Lambert to sing on our show."

"Well, baby, you know," Isaac says as he leaves, waving away the chorus of groans that rise up behind him, "maybe it _was_ just time for a miracle."


End file.
